Monday, 20 April 2015

What’s that you’ve got in your glass, I ask Magic Rock’s
Stuart Ross. Salty Kiss comes the reply, with incan berries added at three
weeks and then aged in Tequila barrels for about three months.

We’re at the launch of Unhuman Cannonball at Craft Beer Co in
Islington and it’s good to catch up (I first met Stuart when he was at the
Crown Brewery in Sheffield and we bonded over our love for Randy Mosher’s
Radical Brewing, which is the only home-brewing book I have ever read with the intensity I usually accord to Hemingway).

He offers me a taste. It’s vinous, delicately sour and
lightly salty, there’s a background hum of sweetness and I can just about taste
something Tequila-like in the background.

Later on, next day, I’m thinking about the beer and how some
drinkers would taste this and say that it wasn’t beer; then I start thinking
about the variety of flavours and different directions brewers are now heading
in, whether it’s about making their own interpretations of Gose, adding all
manner of ingredients, letting this or that yeast in, or replicating their
favourite hangover cure in a sour way (when I was interviewing Beavertown’s
Logan Plant last year we were talking about Lemon Phantom Sour and he told me it was based on
‘that wonderful hangover cure, Lemon Fanta!’).

If you’re of a traditionalist persuasion, whether it’s keg
or cask, then these might seem non-beery flavours, a strangeness in the way brewing is being done, a wayward
exclamation of the arts and crafts of brewing, the cliffs of god that need to
be climbed on your knees when a nice comfortable escalator will do. Go away,
you might want to say.

On the other hand, such flavours and cravings are here to
stay, but immersion in the sanctuary of beer can send one off on a crass course
towards thinking that everyone, just everyone, thinks the same.

At tastings I have seen people who know their own minds about Pilsner Urquell, Doom Bar, London Pride or Peroni express surprise at their
first experience of Saison Dupont or Westmalle Tripel and actually rather enjoy this experience, and with this in mind
it’s easy to forget that when you chat and collaborate with those of a similar
ilk, that not everyone has their palate calibrated into this brave new world of
flavour, for that is what it is — a brave new (rediscovered, some might say)
world of flavour, a grave bold cure away from what some might recognise as
beer.

And after I taste the Salty Kiss, I return to my Unhuman
Cannonball (lemon-gold in colour, juicy, bracingly bitter, forward facing in
its grapefruitiness), another beer that traditionalists might care to dismiss —
and then I think back to the tasting I had done earlier in the day when someone
had asked me what constitutes beer? There and then, aloud, I had mused that beer is an alcoholic beverage
made with malted barley, hops, yeast and water but that it might include other
grains, and could have spices, fruit, vegetables or meat extract within, and
might not have hops or might have more hops than was thought decent, or it might be aged in wooden barrels or even within clay
(as I tasted a couple of years ago in Rimini from Birra del Borgo).

And that is
what I like about what is going on in beer at the moment — brewers might not
always get it right but the search for (or the rediscovery of) different
flavours and aromas is a great thing. Musicians and writers and bakers and builders use traditional
forms to express their soul but if they discover a new way then it’s right that
they take that path. Brewers can do the same.

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

…And there are times when I don’t know what words to clink
together when it comes to beer (and its accompanying spheres of conflict,
comfort and crumbling ideals); and there are times when I don’t know in what
way words should follow each other. Should it be a pre-ordained path of
understanding? Should there be understanding at all? After all, words come into
the world unformed or perhaps uninformed about the path that they should follow
— that understanding is the plan of the writer, or is that more the slow camera
pan of the words of the writers the writer has read that form themselves into
squares, at arms length, Frederick the Great’s giant guardsmen assembling, an
understanding of human form. That beer in the glass there, the one that glows
on the table, whose colour suggests the sun of the Mediterranean, what should I
make of it, how should I approach it? How do you do? What’s your name? Shall we
dance? Or should I just engulf myself in it, let it take me over and wait for
the next one to pass?

Is it just a liquid in a clear glass, or is it something
more amenable when it comes to understanding? The flavour, the aroma, the feel
of the liquid on the tongue, the stroke on the throat, the taut line when a
fish is caught, what does that mean when the beer is drank. Enjoyment for sure
(unless of course it’s a beer whose only lure is a bright, fluorescent light, a
clowning glory, a false story that all will be well if only the drinker picks
this beer), the swell of the ocean, a mighty movement on the palate, a realisation
that here is something that makes you remember why one day, long ago, you chose
to add beer to that happy band of companions that shall always be at your side
until the day the great ride is done (the deep well of literature, the soaring
peaks of music, the deep wine-dark breadths of the sea, the earthly powers of
mountains, the companionship of history, the simplicity of friendship and love,
the faithful pleasure of the table, the immortality of sport, the instinctive bond with canis lupus familiaris).

And on that day beer, and all the notes that appear on its
own chromatic scale coming together in as many different ways as there are days
in a life (the people, the places where beer is drank and made, the parade of
flavours and aromas, the nothingness with which one grapples with to understand
its place in the world), became embedded in my life and yet there are times
when I still don’t know what words to clink together when it comes to writing
about beer.

Tuesday, 7 April 2015

And yes, that’s a Staro glass, it was given to me by the local curmudgeon, who has thankfully left the area

Aged, received in December, sent to me from the brewery in lieu of an article on British sours that will appear in All About Beer soon, late December, and when it’s poured it’s still
and limpid in the glass reminiscent of the kind of pond that poor old Ophelia drowned
herself in (and which Millais put onto canvas), and as a digression I recall the first time I read Hamlet I thought what a ditherer he was, couldn’t make his mind up about anything, give me Falstaff or even Malvolio anytime — very dark chestnut/mahogany in
colour, like a stained, ancient piece of furniture that’s been in the family
for centuries. An agreeable handshake of dark stout like sweetness, burnt
notes, treacle (or is that toffee?) alongside the angular, yoga poses of
sourness, all making for an initially uncomfortable introduction but then it’s
all ok, the kind of feeling you get when you settle into the yoga pose and know
that what you are doing has got to be doing you some good. There’s a mustiness and earthiness on the
palate, as if I had just gone into an old stable on a hot summer’s day and
caught the aromas of horses and their actions long gone, but there’s also a
grapefruit-like acidity, a stout-like boisterousness, a long day dawning of
quenching zestiness; it’s a dirty beer, a beer that slinks along with a scowl
on its face, a beer that kicks up the dust in the road (the mood of Dos Passos’ USA perhaps), a beer that ululates to
be matched with a big fat sweating pungent slice of Stilton or maybe it’s a
beer that can be enjoyed on its own, a lonesome pine of a beer, that highlights
the day as the sun moves across the sky. I rather like it.

Wednesday, 1 April 2015

Back in the late autumn of 2005 I visited the bière de garde
region of northern France for a What’s Brewing article — I thought I’d bring it
back to life and also remind myself that it’s time for me to get out there
again (I was in Lille in 2012 but that was for this). You might have to excuse
certain phrases that I wouldn’t go anywhere near now, such as ‘weighing in’ —
cringe.

I’ve never met a landlady like Beatrice Maerten. Along with
her husband, she runs a guesthouse in the French Flemish village of Boeschepe,
on the edge of the hop-growing area that stretches north from Steenvoorde over
the Belgian border to Poperinge.

This is a house of beer. Each room is named after a Trappist
or Abbey classic, while if you call ahead you might even be offered a beer
dinner. I stayed for one night and had St-Sylvestre Biére Nouvelle as an
aperitif, while Annoeullin’s exquisite L’Angelus accompanied a ham and cheese
crepe, followed by a beery carbonade. Post-dessert contemplation came with a
bottle of St-Sylvestre’s stately strong-armed ale Gavroche. There were more
surprises. ‘I thought you would like this,’ she said next morning, handing over
a bottle of Westvleteren 12. Beats a Blackpool guesthouse any day.

As most CAMRA members will know, beer rather than wine is
king in Northern France. Here, biére de garde has long been the name to drop,
even though the term is more of an umbrella for the varieties of beers produced
by small and large breweries in the region (of which there are approximately
30), than any specific style.

Garding is unique to the area. It means to lay down a beer
for a specific period of time, almost similar to German lagering. It stems from
the time when brewing was a seasonal activity and beers had to last throughout
the hot summer months. These days, anything up to four weeks post-fermentation
garding seems to be the norm. Another USP of these beers was the use of
warm-fermenting yeasts that gave the beers a fruity, ale-like warmth.

In this strip of land that runs from the coast towards the
southern edge of the Ardennes, breweries look to Belgium, as well as their own
history, for inspiration. There are spritzy, fruity blancs, rich and deep
ambreés, honey-hued blondes and spicy, mind-blowing Christmas ales, the latter
unveiled with all the razzamatazz of Beaujolais Nouvelle.

Yet, try finding some of these beers in bars whose exteriors
are festooned with signs for the multi-national babble of Amstel, Stella and
Jupiler. I asked one small brewer if he sold his beer in the bar across the
road from him. He shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘sometimes’.

Over at Brasserie Duyck, whose Jenlain heralded the biére de
garde revival in the 1970s, Raymond Duyck seemed a bit downbeat. There used to
be a Jenlain café in Lille, but that is now closed, though the Paris one still
remains. He would like to open more of this sort, he said, then told me of the
difficulties caused by InBev hoovering up the distribution right to French
cafés. ‘This means that there are only about 30% of cafes we can sell to.’

Yet, despite these concerns about outlets, in a journey
round a selection of brewers in the north of France, I found a still thriving
brewing culture, that was going against the grain of multi-national,
rice-based, cold-fermented, quick-brewed ersatz lagers.

Daniel Thiriez at the Brasseire Thiriez bar

For a start when I visit Brasserie Thiriez in the small
village of Esquelbecq, which can be found outside Wormout, owner Daniel Thiriez
tells me about his plans to expand, such is the demand for his excellent beers.

Formerly a human resources manager for one of the big
supermarkets, he started brewing in 1996. He had long nurtured visions of
brewing, but was also in search of the good life. ‘I wanted to be independent
and live in the countryside,’ he tells me over a glass of the superbly hoppy
Etoile du Nord, a fruity blonde with bitter highlights. This is his bestseller,
alongside La Blonde de Esquelbecq.

‘This building used to be a brewery until about 60 years
ago, but when I bought it there was nothing left, though some of the older
people in the town remembered it.’ Now it is home to a gleaming stainless steel
kit. The beer, which is mainly in bottle, is garded for a minimum of two weeks,
though Thiriez is a bit unsure about the whole tradition.

‘For me it is difficult to say what is biére de garde. I
cool my beer and leave it for a couple of weeks, which is when the quality
improves. I did do experiments with four weeks but didn’t notice any
difference.’ Make a trip here if you want to buy these excellent beers.

Biére de garde historically had its background in the
farming community and this tradition is maintained at Brasserie Ferme-Beck,
near the town of Ballieul. As the farm is approached, hop poles are a fairly
obvious clue as to what the Beck family farm. They also grow their own barley,
raise livestock and have gites where those with a rural bent can muck in with
farm activities if they so desire. They have been brewing since 1994.

One beer is produced, the stunningly hoppy 7% top-fermented
Hommelpap. When I visit I am taken around by Dennis Bergkamp lookalike Dany
Beck. This is a small operation, but the beer has a bigtime earthy hoppiness
with a burly resiny character. It’s dry and spritzy on the palate with a hint
of refreshing lemony citrus fruit. It’s very moreish and can be had on draught
at the bar that is open at weekends (check during winter months). Bottles can
also be bought. Dany recommends that the bottles be drunk within a month or so
of purchase.

A murky misty morning saw me in the village of St-Sylvestre,
a strip of houses, shops and bars along the main road between Cassel and the
A25 southwards towards Lille. The brewery straddles a side road in the centre
of the village, opposite the church. I am met by Francois Ricour, whose
grandfather took over an already existing brewery in 1920. This is the home of
Trois Monts, which along with Jenlain is seen as one of the great biéres de
garde. It is a blonde beast of a beer, weighing in at 8.5%, with a rich,
smooth, ripe fruit palate and a warming, fruity finish.

The brewery itself is a mixture of new and featureless
storerooms and a bottling line (every brewery of a certain size in northern
France is proud of its bottling line), alongside the old brew room with its
copper mash tuns, lauter tun and tiled floor and walls. Other beers produced
include the aforementioned Gavroche, Biere Nouvelle and a Noël, while Lux du
Moulin and Hoppeland Bier are brewed solely for the local market.

After a lunch-stop in Lille at the Omnia brewpub, which used
to be a porno theatre but now attracts a hipster crowd who gorge on local
dishes such as potjevlesch (a terrine of rabbit, pork, chicken and veal),
washed down with the house specialities such as a marvellously refreshing blanc
or the rich ambrée, it’s over to Douai.

By a railway bridge on the outskirts of this town, several
massive cylindrical vessels mark out the site of Gayant, local dialect for
giant. And giant this brewery certainly is. It brews a lot of beers of varying
character, but the bestselling beer of France’s second largest independent
brewery is the wonderful Goudale. Weighing in at 7.2%, it is often described as
a wheat beer, though with an aromatic and perfumy nose and a bready, caramel,
spicy, bittersweet palate it is closer to a Saison or even an Abbey beer.

As mentioned, Jenlain is the beer that springs most to mind
when discussing biére de garde. Brasserie Duyck can be found in the middle of
the small village of Jenlain and the whole range of beers sampled at a café in
the centre of town. Ambrée is the classic, with deep herbal aromas and a big
mouthful of hops and spice before the dry and bittersweet finish. The brewery’s
Biére de Noël is a souped up Ambrée with an orange, Cointreau-like palate,
while the Blonde is one of the brewery’s most complex beers with fresh citrus
fruit, crunchy breakfast cereal, peppery hop and a hint of toffee making its
presence felt.

Brasserie Bailleux is one of the smallest breweries in the
area, but has been enticing lovers of local beer since its inception in 1989.
Hidden away in the verdant Avesnois area, at the small hamlet of
Gussignies-Bavay, it is attached to a restaurant, set up in the 1970s by Roger
Bailleux. ‘My grandfather had brewed for several different breweries so it felt
right to do this,’ he says.

The 7% Cuvee des Jonquilles is the brewery’s signature beer,
a luscious blonde with an assertive bitter finish, with plenty of nods and
winks to the tripels of neighbouring Belgium. There is also a beer influenced
by the Saisons of Wallonia and the inevitable Noël. Fermentation is for one
week, followed by a fortnight in the cool room, before bottling takes place
with more yeast to form a secondary fermentation. Then another week passes
before it is ready to go out to the public. In this hidden away haven of good
beer, the time-honoured tradition of garding is maintained — and for that we
should give thanks.